


Good Morals and Excellent Taste

by learningthetrees



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Eating the rude, F/M, Post-Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-19 11:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14236056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learningthetrees/pseuds/learningthetrees
Summary: Clarice has played innocent for far too long; it's time she got involved.





	1. Part One

No one could deny that Hannibal Lecter was a man of taste. His sense of fashion was bold but impeccable, all starched collars and rich colors and silk pocket squares. His palate was just as sophisticated — only the most exotic and meticulously prepared dishes made it to his table, only the finest wines touched his lips. As he watched the woman next to him roll over in sleep, her hair sprayed across the pillow, he prided himself yet again on his excellent taste. When awake, Clarice Starling was a fiercely intelligent and brave young woman who shared many of his proclivities for fine living. They could discuss art and literature at length, allow operas and symphonies to enter their souls through the ears, and most importantly, enjoy Hannibal’s culinary labors together.

He leaned carefully on the bed and brushed a finger along her cheek. She didn’t react, only continued to breathe steadily through slightly parted lips. A small smile flickered across Hannibal’s face. The sedative he’d put in her wine last night still had her deep in the grip of sleep, and she would remain that way until he had time to fetch breakfast. Hannibal reached into the closet for a fresh shirt and pants, and then zipped himself up into the transparent plastic suit he wore to protect his precious clothes.

Clarice never asked what he was feeding her. He knew that she was aware of the meat’s origin and that she preferred to remain ignorant about the details. Out of respect to her wishes, Hannibal devised ways to procure meat without her knowledge. Sometimes, it was during the day while she was out, or in the evening after she’d fallen asleep. Sometimes, Hannibal had to excuse himself from whatever house they were in at the time, and although Clarice would watch him go with a knowing glance, she never said anything, never asked him to stop. _Not in a thousand years_.

He slipped from the bedroom, stepping into his shoes in the hallway to avoid any sound. Not that he needed to be so cautious—Clarice wouldn’t wake for at least another hour. He loped gracefully down the stairs, heading to the little restaurant on the corner where a waiter had been exceptionally rude to him.

By the time Hannibal brought back what he’d set out for, cleaned up, and started the meat sizzling on the stove, he heard the rhythmic _thump-thump-thump_ of Clarice descending the stairs. He poured a cup of coffee, added a dash of milk like she liked it, and set it on the counter just as Clarice turned the corner. Somehow she always managed to look more beautiful upon first waking up than she did with her hair coiffed and makeup flawlessly applied. Wrapped in a white silk robe, she stifled a yawn against the back of her hand and smiled at Hannibal.

“It smells like bacon,” she said.

Hannibal fixed a serious gaze on her. “It’s very similar to bacon.”

Clarice lazily perched on the barstool across from Hannibal. He slid her coffee smoothly across the counter, and she peeked into it before bringing it to her lips. “You know me so well,” she said before taking a sip.

Hannibal only flashed a sly smile and turned back to the stove to tend to the angrily sizzling strips of meat. He peeked over his shoulder to see that Clarice was watching him with interest, her neck craned in his direction. “Would you like to help?”

Clarice gave him a coy grin and stood, walking towards him. He lifted a spare apron from a hook on the wall and slipped it on her, cinching it around her waist. When he’d tied it, he brushed her hair back and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. He inhaled deeply; she smelled of faded perfume and champagne and him.

He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I have no idea what to do here,” Clarice said, gesturing to the stove and the various utensils.

“I don’t believe that,” said Hannibal.

“This isn’t my area of expertise,” she said. “Point me to a crime scene and it would be a different story.”

Hannibal had to bite back the irony that Clarice was unknowingly—perhaps a little knowingly—involved in a crime at the moment. Instead, he lifted a pair of tongs and placed them gently in her outstretched hand. “Flip them,” he said, indicating the meat. As she did what he instructed, he picked a ripe yellow grapefruit out of a china bowl and sliced it in half. As he did, he caught her reflection in the knife’s mirrored blade. There was a time in the past when he’d toyed with the idea of killing Clarice Starling—when he was still imprisoned, before she’d proven herself trustworthy. Now, she was the thing he’d kill for.

He placed the fruit on a plate, carried it to the table, and busied himself with arranging it in a unique and exotic design, incorporating flower petals and sticks of cinnamon. He’d lost himself in the artifice until the acrid smell of hot and the sound of Clarice swearing brought him back to the present. Whirling, he saw a small pillar of flame erupt from the frying pan before Clarice smothered it with a dish towel. She brushed errant strands of hair from her face and let out a frustrated sigh, keeping her back to Hannibal.

“Clarice,” he said. She didn’t turn. “Clarice,” he said again, a little more insistent this time. She turned and met his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasted it.” Her voice, normally confident and strong, slipped momentarily back into her West Virginia accent. It was something he noticed about her throughout their time together; her voice was always the first part of her façade to crack.

If Hannibal were a person prone to rolling his eyes, he would have done it. Instead, he set down the fruit plate he’d been holding and wiped his hands on a napkin. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Clarice leaned against the counter and raised her eyebrows. “Can I help?”

At first, Hannibal assumed he’d misheard her. But her chin was uplifted, her shoulders squared, her face clear of deceit. She looked like the Clarice she’d been before the mess with Verger, when she was a smart and capable FBI agent. Clarice had never lied to him.

“Help…with what?” Hannibal could be a tease; he wanted to hear her say it. If she was going to take this plunge, he wanted it to be full and complete.

“Do I have to spell it out?” She sighed. “I know where you get our food. I know what you do.”

Of course she did. She knew; she’d always known. That made her believe she had the upper hand, that she was controlling the situation, but he’d found his way in. He knew, from the beginning, from the very first time he’d fed her, that she would one day turn. After all, she was his creation. She’d always had good morals and he’d always have excellent taste, but Hannibal would remake her.

"Where would you like to begin?”

           


	2. Part Two

Clarice Starling had a little experience in hunting. Sometimes on autumn weekends, before he was ripped from her, her father had taken her out to the woods and demonstrated with his crossbow the best technique for felling a deer. When young Clarice took the heavy weapon in her hands, she was at first afraid of its potential. But as she’d become accustomed to the crossbow, she started to prize the weight of her new power.

That feeling, one she hadn’t experienced since her childhood, returned when she held the hunting knife Hannibal had carefully, almost religiously, handed her. She turned it over in her hands several times, adjusting to its weight and balance. Then, she turned and tossed it, watching as it flipped several times in its trajectory before sticking firmly in the pantry door. Hannibal, standing several feet away, widened his eyes in unsuspecting surprise.

“It throws well,” Clarice said, retrieving the knife.

“I’m glad,” he said. There was a look of something, maybe pride, hiding on his features. Clarice didn’t notice, however; she was too busy inspecting the blade, tapping its sharp edge lightly against her finger. When a little bubble of blood blossomed on her fingertip, she didn’t react, except to bring it closer until she could practically see her reflection in the drop.

Hannibal placed an arm around her shoulders and led her, almost trance-like, into the study, where she dutifully sank into the chair before his fine cherry desk. This center of his operations was arranged with utmost care, more like an altar than a workspace. Papers and books were stacked perfectly, pens lined up at precise angles. With steady fingers, Clarice sifted through a collection of business cards they’d amassed since their arrival. Some of the names were familiar to Clarice, engrained in her memory by acts of rudeness. She held up one belonging to the realtor who had first shown them their current apartment. The woman had first assumed they were father and daughter, and, upon correction, had looked at them only with a mixed expression of utter disgust and contempt.

“I remember her,” she said softly. Hannibal leaned over to read the card.

“Ah, yes. Quite rude, if I recall,” he replied. “She seemed so unfamiliar with matters of the heart.” Clarice understood, and looked up at Hannibal with a knowing glint in her eye. “I may have a very fitting recipe,” he said, and with that pronouncement, he left the study. Clarice heard his footsteps recede into the kitchen, where he was undoubtedly consulting various cookbooks, but she was paralyzed. She didn’t want to look at this woman’s name any longer—didn’t want to imagine her life, her family, her future—but she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

The sound of her name broke her focus, and she joined Hannibal in the kitchen. He had spread before him on the counter a number of different recipes, all containing the main ingredient of “heart.” He was busy looking through the pantry, taking inventory. “Choose what you want, Clarice,” he instructed, still rooting around in the pantry. Clarice surveyed the recipes; each one was more unusual than the last, all of them dishes she had never tried. Finally, she settled on beef heart braised in wine because she thought it might at least taste familiar, like beef stew. Of course, she knew it wouldn’t be beef stew, no matter how hard she imagined.

The next step was proper outfitting, and Clarice followed Hannibal to the locked closet where he stored items he didn’t want easily discovered. Clarice glimpsed a clear plastic suit akin to coveralls, but Hannibal instead handed her a nondescript dark sweater. Its knit was thick and warm between her fingers, its size enough to mask any defining features of her body. Obediently, she slipped the sweater over her head, already beginning to transform.

The sun was just starting to dip into darkness, the cover of night approaching, when the two stole quietly out of the apartment and strode down the avenue. Hannibal held Clarice’s gloved hand in one hand and a small cooler in the other. It had taken a phone call to Information and only a bit of cursory snooping to determine the rude realtor’s home address—Clarice was familiar with uncovering hidden information. They peered at house fronts as they passed, taking care to look just like any other couple walking the streets at night, guarding their secret purpose.

“There,” Clarice muttered, pointing with her chin to the house bearing the correct address. Hannibal swung open the gate and gestured with a graceful sweeping motion for her to enter in front of him. Her feet moved, almost without her control, and she crossed the threshold onto the stranger’s property. Pressing a hand to the belt hidden beneath her sweater, she ascertained that the hunting knife was still secure on her person. She looked over her shoulder, trying to chase the uncertainty from her eyes as Hannibal gave her a composed nod. He would wait at the gate, he’d told her, to keep away passersby. Clarice breathed deeply, bolstered by the pride and faith radiating from Hannibal, and turned back, closing the distance between her and the act she was about to commit.

Entering the house was easy enough, and, after determining that she was alone aside from her charge, Clarice located the woman without difficulty. She took care of her the way Hannibal had instructed: quickly, quietly, and without too much loss of blood. It was as if some internal part of her had taken over, a mind blank of thoughts and emotions. Perhaps she’d crawled into this secretive part of her because she didn’t want to consider what she was really doing, or perhaps—and this thought frightened her even more—perhaps this part of her was what she was meant to be.

When it was finished, Hannibal joined her in the house to harvest what they’d come for. Unable to resist the temptation of creating a dramatic tableau, Hannibal sat the lifeless woman in a chair by the fire, a book of love poems on her lap and a gaping hole in her chest where her heart had been. The heart packed on ice in the cooler, they left the house together. Hannibal latched the gate behind them, and they took off down the street the way they’d come: hand in hand and almost unnoticeable in the growing darkness. They hadn’t said a word to each other.

They ensconced themselves in the privacy of their apartment again, and Hannibal plunked the cooler down onto the kitchen counter. “I’ll take care of the cooking,” he said, remembering with a tight smile Clarice’s attempt at cooking earlier. “Why don’t you go get dressed for dinner?”

Clarice nodded, swallowing something like fear when she saw Hannibal remove the organ from the cooler. She quickly retreated up the stairs to their bedroom, where she stood in front of the mirror, sucking in unsteady breaths and staring at a reflection she no longer recognized. Yes, her bright blonde hair was drastically different from her natural dark red. Contacts turned her blue eyes brown, but underneath the surface was where she looked different. She was struck with a desire to peel off the mask and unearth the real being, but instead she tore herself away from the mirror.

Trying to cause some kind of sensation, Clarice stood under a steaming hot shower, but her body felt just as numb as her mind to the stinging heat. After she dried off, she donned a dark burgundy, floor-length gown and loosened her hair to fall around her shoulders. As she carefully descended the stairs in high heels, she could smell a robust and earthy scent wafting through the apartment.

Clarice entered the kitchen to see that Hannibal had already artfully plated the dish, poured red wine, and lit several candles along the length of the table. With a napkin draped over his arm like a waiter, Hannibal wore an expression of pure glee when he saw Clarice enter the room. “Please, sit,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. Slowly, she lowered herself into her seat.

There was a roar in her ears as Hannibal raised a glass to clink against hers, and although she saw his lips move, she heard nothing of what he said. She speared a piece of meat, brought it to her lips, and took a bite, unable to ignore Hannibal’s penetrating smile as she chewed and swallowed the firm meat. He started to eat as well, but before he could speak, Clarice’s silverware clattered to the table.

She stood, the rushing in her ears growing louder as she dashed from the room. Her shoes slipped from her feet as she raced into the powder room. She slammed the door shut, kneeling by the toilet and choking up the bite she’d just swallowed. She felt blood and viscera and another person’s soul, taken unrighteously, forced through her esophagus, salty tears dripping from her cheeks. 

There was a soft knock at the door. “Clarice,” came Hannibal’s equally soft voice. The way he said it, it sounded like “Mischa.” She didn’t respond, her stomach still raging. “It gets easier,” he cooed. “It gets easier.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com](http://www.ask-learningthetrees.tumblr.com)!


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